these fuckers down - and their mates - and kill them.
Anna sparked up another of the boss’s cigarettes and put the lighter back on the table. The smoke curled from her mouth and nose before she spoke. The only words I recognized now sounded like names of countries. He was still calm. He lit himself another cigarette too and took such a mega-drag I could see the paper burn down like a fuse.
Anna sat and waited while he thought about what she’d said. But she didn’t wait for long. She stood up before he’d delivered his answer: she’d had enough of this bullshit.
I turned towards the North Face guys. I wanted them to know that we intended to leave in one piece. Fuck the mobiles and the other stuff. I moved into the corridor just in time to see Mr Big give his mates a very satisfied grin and put his coat back on.
The small guy started talking. Anna stopped, turned back, went to the table and sat down. She helped herself to another cigarette from his pack.
He gave an order to one of the North Faces. I heard the front door open and close.
We waited in silence. The two of them smoked. The boss checked his mobile now and again for messages as Anna sat back, picking tobacco from her lips. The sobbing above us gradually subsided.
After three or four minutes the sound of clubland laughter echoed down the hallway and a new body appeared. Dressed in a brown overcoat over a black polo neck, he was so slim his head looked as if it really belonged on someone else’s shoulders. Everything about him was immaculate. His nails were manicured, possibly even polished. Not one dark brown hair from what was left on his head was out of place. He didn’t give Anna or me as much as a glance as he headed for the small guy’s side of the table.
He jerked his head. ‘She speak English?’
He was no Russian: his accent was Scouse, deep, strong and quick.
The small guy shrugged.
The Scouser took a seat next to his mate.
Anna stubbed out what was left of her cigarette on the plate and frowned impatiently, wanting to get on with business. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Santa fucking Claus. What the fuck’s it to you? Why have you come to us?’
He wasn’t exactly cross-eyed, but they looked ever so slightly inwards. He reminded me of someone I’d known back in my battalion days. Robot was permanently AWOL. He’d always either gone to a Millwall match, or got arrested after one. His big pleasure in life was smashing up shop fronts or battering other teams’ fans with a hammer. Being in the army had messed up his social life.
I always kept clear of Robot. He was as crazy and unpredictable as he looked. One day he walked into someone in the cookhouse by mistake. Instead of ‘Why don’t you look where you’re going?’ the guy said, ‘Why don’t you go where you’re looking?’ It cracked us up, but Robot didn’t see the funny side. The squaddie he’d collided with was in hospital for weeks with a fractured jaw.
Anna relaxed back into her chair. ‘I want girls. I’m expanding into Italy, France, Germany. I want to pick them up from here, and do my own distribution.’
The Scouser leant over and examined the last cigarette in the pack. With a curl of the lip he extracted a silver case from an inside pocket. He flipped it open, selected an untipped cancer stick of his own and bounced it up and down in his lips as he spoke. ‘What’s your name?’ He reached for the lighter.
‘Anna.’ Her tone was assured. She was going for it.
The Scouser dipped into his coat and pulled out Lilian’s pictures, along with our mobiles. ‘What the fuck’s this shite about?’
Anna didn’t miss a beat. ‘She is one of mine, from Moldova.’
He smiled. ‘Not any more.’
Anna sat back and accepted the news with a slow nod. ‘Is she upstairs?’
‘Not now. Those two are just perks for the lads.’ He waved an arm towards the doorway. ‘Can’t be all work, no play. Know what I mean?’
She didn’t bother answering. ‘The hard part is getting the girls into Europe. If you can do that, why don’t I just come to you? It will make my life easier.’ She retrieved the pictures from the table and screwed them up. ‘Do you have girls for sale, or am I wasting my time?’